


New All Over

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7095913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post season 3. Wesley descends deeper into darkness when he does something unthinkable to himself. Meanwhile, Gunn and Fred tries to keep Angel Investigations going as they search for Angel and Cordelia. Unfortunately their search is interrupted by some new demon thugs in the neighbourhood.</p><p>SPOILERS: Season 3 episodes until 'Tommorow'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2004, before there was an archive for Wesley fanfiction. This fanfic is complete and my first novel-length fanfic. But it's going to take me a while to upload this 70k word monster :)
> 
> PS: I write in British English. So, excuse my "U"s. :)
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

"So - your former boss has a soul and you're losing yours. Why, you're just new all over, aren't ya?"

Wesley heard her say the words, but it left him feeling oddly hollow. He returned Lilah's twisted smirk with a disinterested stare and watched as she picked up her clothes and sashayed out of his apartment. He turned his gaze to the ceiling and only took his eyes off when he heard the door click shut.

He got up slowly – like an old man – from his bed. He walked to the windows, staring at the grimy streets below, not bothering to cover himself.

As he watched an old woman push a shopping trolley across the road, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

How low could you go, Wesley?

Apparently, quite low, he mused, thinking about his misguided night of passion with the Wolfram and Hart lawyer. It had been so easy then – she was there, and he had a need – to feel again; anything except the black bitterness and despair that had been eating him alive for weeks.

The blackness stayed away for about 10 seconds in Lilah's arms. The sex was good for about that long – then it became a desperate act of pushing back the darkness with mindless sex. The whole experience left him with a sour taste in his mouth.

His need was simple. He wanted to feel *something* good once more, something that could resurrect that old Wesley, the Wesley he was before he lost Connor.

Connor.

The thought of what he did brought familiar stabs of pain and regret into his heart. It usually set off a chain reaction of dark thoughts – of Angel's attempt to suffocate him to death; of Gunn and Fred's abandonment; of Cordelia's casual dismissal of his existence. But he stopped it this time. Why? Because he was tired, damn it. Tired of sitting around and letting the blackness eat him. Tired of fighting the good fight but always failing.

He had tried to be a good Watcher to Buffy and Faith; sure that doing things by the book would ensure that success. He failed.

He tried hunting down rogue demons – that was a laughable attempt at best. Then came Angel, and for a while his dreams seem to come true. He found acceptance and a life mission. For once, his aimless life had a path to follow. He may have faced bullet wounds, stabbings, torture and mutilation at the hands of demons, vampires, zombies, rogue slayers and near-apocalypses; but as long as he had Gunn, Angel, Fred and Cordelia, life was just peachy.

He should have recognized the signs of his impending doom. There was Darla, then came Sahjhan, then Connor; Holtz, Justine … then the *bloody* prophecies. For goodness sakes, he should have realized his fate when he worked with the undead and fraternized with demons and semi-demons.

If he had a sane thought in his noggin' and was not obsessed with a bleedin' noble cause, he would have hightailed the hell out of LA and headed straight back to merry old England. He would have been an English teacher with an unusual amount on knowledge in demonology in some godforsaken but quaint village in the moors.

Instead, he had to stay in sunny Los Angeles – despite the bombings, gunshot wounds and numerous near death experiences at the hands of ghouls – to fight the good fight.

*Who am I kidding? What good fight? Father was right. I am a failure. I will never-*

"Stop it, you bloody idiot!" he said out loud. He was momentarily startled by the strange, grating voice that came from his scarred throat. Funny – it had been weeks, and he was still not used to the change. It wasn't so much the injury that caused the change – but the strange darkness that hid behind it.

Wesley headed for the bathroom and stared at his reflection. He took in the disheveled hair, the unshaven appearance and the deep frown. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce would have been shocked at his appearance. He was a Watcher, and a Watcher always had himself together. He is always ready for anything and everything. He had to train slayers, slay demons and get the right spells ready – all in an immaculate suit and with nary a hair out of place.

Who was this man staring back at him? He lifted an eyebrow. The sight amused him and he found himself grinning stupidly at himself.

"Oh Wesley, maybe Lilah was right. Only the world's most evil law firm would take you in now. After all, you look a bloody mess - like a man without a soul," he said to his reflection and chuckled. His chuckle turned into sardonic laughter and then into painful sobs.

He turned away when he felt the pain of unshed tears behind his eyes. He could not bear seeing himself breaking down. Don't you dare cry, Wesley, his father used to rail at him. A Watcher cannot be moved by his emotions. Never let your emotions rule over you! They will ruin you!

He was right. He was right …

He choked back a sob and tried to push the tears back. He sat down on the toilet seat, gripping his head as if he wanted to crush the emotion out of it.

*Oh Lord, I am tired. So tired of fighting, of trying to know what's the best thing  
to do … the memories haunt me. They're killing me, drinking me alive. I don't want to be concerned anymore. I'm tired. I'm sick of it all. I've had enough of all this shit-*

After a while, he gathered himself enough to walk into his excuse of a living room. He stared at the scattered debris of food stuff, ancient manuscripts and books on the floor. Then at the door. And then a thought occurred to him:

He had invited Angel in.

He remembered – was it last year? After he was shot by the zombie cop and was reduced to a man in a wheelchair. Angel had just had his epiphany after sleeping with Darla and had decided to come rescue him from vengeful Skilosh demons.

He recalled Angel's bumbling attempts at reconciliation after the whole "You're fired" episode with an amused smile. Wesley didn't think that he could win Cordelia back with a few articles of designer clothing though. Nor would he be so easily forgiven by the others like Angel.

So, Angel could waltz in here to finish the job he started in the hospital anytime. He hadn't though – second thoughts perhaps? Or just plain 'don't-care-Wesley-doesn't-exist-anymore' attitude?

Worse, Gunn and Fred knew where he lived too. His face soured at the memory of Gunn visiting him; only to remind him that he didn't want to have anything to do with him anymore and, oh, by the way – do you happen to know a way to get rid of this slug demon?

He was sick of them. He was sick of himself. It was time to change. Move on and forget the whole Angel Investigation episode of his life.

Move on.

Ah…like Angel, he just had an epiphany.

And frankly, he couldn't believe how stupid he had been to not think of this sooner.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO  
"You're movin' house?" Mrs. DeLores exclaimed, her white, curly hair bounced a little in her astonishment. Then she lowered her voice, "Was it because of the mugging?" her eyes shifted to his neck.

He fingered his scar absently for a while and shrugged.

"I need a change. To leave some people behind so that they don't bother me anymore."

"Those damn street thugs," Mrs. DeLores sniffed, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief that magically appeared out of nowhere. "You are such a sweet, young man. When I heard about what happened to you, it nearly made my heart stop. I hate to see anything else happen to you. But I also hate to see such a good tenant leave," she sighed dramatically.

Wesley just stared at her. He spoke to the woman only three times since he moved here three years ago. First, to find out if the apartment was available, second to get the key, and third to vacate the apartment. Their monthly dealings involved rental payment reminder notes and cheques slipped under the door.

Mrs. DeLores was unperturbed at his scrutiny. "Have you found a place?"

He gave her a small smile. "Not yet, but I did hear about a potential neighborhood."

* * *

SIX DAYS AGO

"Avarice is the worst place to live in the whole of California."

Wesley turned to see who spoke. He was only half interested in the conversation. He would've ignored it completely if not for the tantalizing sight of Bob, the greasy cook behind the counter, flipping meat patties.  
The speaker was a disgruntled looking man in work overalls. As he sat at his table in the diner, he gave the waitress – Myrtle, was it? – a sour look.

"If I work there another day, I'm gonna go nuts."

"What's with the place, Joe?" Myrtle asked, only half interested. She patted her peroxide blonde hairdo absently as she readied her notebook for his order. "And do you want your usual or do you want my coffee surprise?"

"Yeah, my usual, and your coffee is a surprise only because Bob allowed you to serve it to us for so long."

This made some of the diners at Bob's Side Café laugh.

Myrtle hit Joe with her notebook. "Get on with the story," she complained. By then, Joe had some of the diners interested - they shifted in their seats to look at him.

"Well, you wouldn't believe the crime rate for one. People go missing there like you won't believe. Muggings, lootings - Yeah, you would expect it for a place called Avarice – who think up these stupid names anyway? Anyway, so I'm working at my construction site, right? And Bob told me that another guy went missing again."

"Hey, you did tell us that someone went missing last week, right?" A man spoke up from a corner.

Joe turned to look at the man. "Yeah, it was Herman."

"Herman?" Myrtle piped up. "Alice's Herman?"

"Yeah. Poor guy. They found him like four days ago – apparently he had some bite marks on his neck. Police say it's some kind of animal. Near tore his throat out. Not a drop of blood left in him – or anywhere around him for that matter. Weird, for a wound like that."

"Oh man, no shit?" said another guy.

"You're kidding, right?" Myrtle said.

"Nope. And now, Harry's missing. I don't want to be next, you know?"

The crowd murmured in agreement.

Wesley returned to his very bad coffee and thought to himself: Vampires. Avarice had a bad vampire problem, if he was not mistaken. It was not an area Angel Investigations liked to frequent – despite their line of work. They were investigators getting assignments from the Powers That Be, not Vampire Slayers. Los Angeles had other pockets of demon activity that they were more concerned about.

"Frankly, I have no idea why they're building something there," Joe was saying. "Nobody wants to live there. But it's the cheapest place to live in LA – if you don't mind getting your throat ripped out."

THE PRESENT

"Avarice?" the petite red-headed woman stared at him, stunned, before quickly replacing her shock with a smile that was too bright to be true. "You've come to the right place. We have several houses that you might be interested in," she said, leading him to her desk.

Wesley sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair and looked around the office. The real estate office was mostly empty except for Mona – the petite woman serving him – and a near-catatonic receptionist near the door. The walls were filled with pictures of outdated architecture harking back to the 50s, and the furniture were the type you cobbled together from those DIY sections in hypermarts.

Norston Realtors was run down, like many of the offices at the fringes of Avarice. It would seem that nobody wanted to live *near* Avarice either.

"No, I don't want a house. I want something bigger. Much bigger," he said, giving Mona a small smile.

Mona could not hide her shock this time. "There are no mansions in Avarice," she said pointedly.

*She probably thinks that this British guy is an eccentric recluse along the lines of Howard Hughes. If life could be that simple.* Wesley mused.

"No, not mansions. Warehouses."

"Warehouses?" she echoed stupidly.

"You know, buildings where they keep things?"

"Oh!" Mona laughed nervously and then giggled. "Warehouses. Right. Plenty of them in Avarice. Of course that's why you're interested in Avarice. It's not as if you're going to-" Mona visibly gulped as she realized that she might have said too much.

Wesley knew what she was getting at, but he wanted to needle her just a bit. He had not had this much fun since…well, ever. "Going to what?"

"Nothing," she gave him a big smile and disappeared under the desk, presumably to look for files.

Wesley tried to see what she was doing. "Going to what?" he repeated.

Mona came up from below her desk with a file. Then she sighed dramatically. "Live there," she said, exasperated.

"Well," Wesley drawled. "That *was* my idea."

"Oh…er…live there? In a converted warehouse?"

"I need space. Lots of it. For weapons practice."

Mona stared, then burst out laughing. "Of course. Hah! Weapons practice," she chortled as she flipped through her file. She turned the file over to his side.

"Here's one you might be interested in – a former warehouse that stored plastic goods."

Wesley studied the black and white building and then the note 'Vacant since 1998' at the side. It had clean lines and enough space to store a 600 pound Garmak demon and its entire spawn.

"It's too sterile. It reminds me of lawyers. I hate lawyers."

"Okay…" Mona drawled and flashed him an odd look before she flipped a few pages further to show him another. And another.

And another.

"Does every warehouse remind you of lawyers?" Mona asked 20 warehouses later, annoyed.

"It's the modern architecture and glass windows. As cold and attractive as a certain she-lawyer I know. May I have a look?" he reached out for the file. Mona let him have it reluctantly.

He flipped through a few more until he finally caught something he truly liked. He felt his lips tugging into a big smile. He didn't know why anyone bothered to put Grecian columns to flank the entrance of a warehouse, but he liked it – along with the row of Georgian windows that lined the second storey of the building. The walls were a very faded yellow that could formerly be white. Overgrown grass flanked the property.  
He read the notes at the side of the faded black and white photograph: Built, circa 1920. Vacant since 1985. Shifted hands numerous times; the frequency increasing as the 80s approached. It was sometime after the vampire infestation began, he supposed.

Mona saw him staring at the photo, but she did not look overjoyed.

"Sir…Mr. Pryce?"

"Wyndham-Pryce," he corrected her, his eyes still on the photograph.

"Mr. Wyndham-Pryce, I cannot recommend you Baylor House."

"Baylor House? It sounds rather elegant. When can we visit it?"

"I don't think you'd like living in that neighbourhood," Mona was saying.

"And the price? Can I have the quotation?"

"Mr. Wyndham-"

"Call me Wesley. My surname can be quite a mouthful," he said, still staring at Baylor House.

"Why don't we look at another potential place?" Mona reached over and tried to tug the file from his hands. He gave her a glare and she sat back with a nervous smile and continued, "I have a great looking warehouse – with no glass windows or hint of modern architecture in sight – somewhere outside Avarice…" she trailed off when she noticed the thin line around his neck. Her lips pulled back in a grimace when she realized that it was a recently healed scar of a knife wound.

Wesley closed the file with a loud snap. It made Mona jump.

"I like this one."

Mona swallowed.

After a beat, Wesley said, "I'm truly puzzled here. I'm giving you a sale, after all."

"Sir…alright. I don't like selling places to people when the places are not…"

He lifted an eyebrow.

Mona sighed deeply. "It's haunted."

He perked up. "Oh really? With what?"

Mona truly looked confused now. "Excuse me?"

"Is it a ghost? Vampires? Garnak demons? Maybe the occasional Juju spirit?"

Mona blinked.

He squinted at her. "Or maybe *you're* possessed?"

Mona came to her senses. "O-Kay. Here's a weird British customer!" She pointed at him accusingly. "You're probably a serial killer aren't you?"  
Before he could answer, Mona flung her hands upward.  
"Why couldn't I get a job in LA like any other decent real estate graduate? Maybe I should have accepted Jonah's offer to open a firm in Sunnydale like he suggested," she trailed off, distracted.

"I wouldn't advise that. The Hellmouth is there. And the property in Sunnydale never appreciates."

Mona stared at him long and hard before saying, "Mr. Wyndham-Pryce, if I was anyone else, I would've sold you that property in a snap. It has been sitting in our files for *years*. But I don't like selling people houses where they can be killed in. People have died in that house. There's even talk about vampires living there – as if they exist! Not only is it haunted, Baylor House is in the worst section of the worst neighbourhood in LA. Do you know what that means?"

"That you're an honest woman, and I like that," he said sincerely.

Mona blushed at his unexpected praise. "Sir-"

"Wesley; and as a reward for your honesty, I would like to relieve you of that piece of property as soon as possible. Please."

Mona looked as if she still couldn't believe it. "Sure. Eat your heart out, but I did warn you. Why in the world do you want a haunted house in a bad neighborhood anyway?"

Wesley gave her a ghost of a smile. "To see who dies first – the vampires or me."


	3. Chapter 3

After his little speech about vampires and dying, Mona wasn't very enthusiastic about accompanying him to Baylor House. She gave him the keys, showed him the door and asked him to call if he wanted the place. Then she bolted the office door and shut the windows. At 2pm in the afternoon.

He was now at Furton Street, and Baylor House stood before him, tall and imposing. Compared to the other warehouses that Mona showed him, Baylor was comparatively small. The other buildings around Baylor House were very much abandoned - exposed windows appeared as baleful eyes glaring at his intrusion.

After some research, he discovered that Mona was correct – a few bodies have appeared around Baylor house since the early 80s. The total body count so far: 20. And Wesley noted the condition of the bodies discovered: drained of blood, strange bite marks on the neck.

Police officers that have ventured into the house to investigate often reported strange noises and movements in the basement. None had dared to venture into the cavernous depths of Baylor House's basement. In 1984, two policemen disappeared, never to be seen again. It had gotten so bad that people began to leave Furton street in droves. By 1991, Furton Street was a ghost street.

Charging into the house unprepared was probably a very bad idea.  
Frankly, Wesley was surprised that Baylor House was not abandoned by the owner. It looked like the owner was willing to settle with anything, as long as he got *something* out of the dump. That something amounted to $4,240. An amazingly ridiculous price that would make sane people look twice. Wesley, however, was nowhere near sane right now.

After all, he planned to wipe the vampire nest in Baylor House all by himself. He was not a Slayer, just an ex-Watcher who happens to know a few ways to kill a vampire. But he also knew an avenue that could turn him into something close to a Slayer.

His name was Gavin Rice, and he is, by profession, a warlock. Unlike many of his line, he didn't go for the white or black magic label. He liked to call himself a practicer of neutral magics; though with a little monetary persuasion he could go a little dark once in a while.

The door creaked open. Gavin lifted a blonde eyebrow and watched as his visitor walked in. His other eyebrow shot up when he realized who it was. He shifted a little on his velvet settee and placed his glass of bourbon on the side table beside him.

"My, my, my…I never thought I'd have the likes of you in my abode twice in my lifetime – 500 years of it," he said, his upper-crust English accent smooth as honey.

His visitor looked around the plushy surroundings absently before gesturing towards the swords hanging on the wall on the far right.

"The swords of Amondias. Quite a catch. Did you bribe it off a customer?"

"Nothing so crass, my dear Mr. Watcher. Oh, I must apologize. It's Mr. Big Boss of Angel Investigations now, isn't it?"

Wesley gave him a sharp glare.

"Oh, has that changed too?" Gavin asked innocently. "News travels a little slow around these magically shifting parts. So–" he picked up his wineglass once more, "-who are you now? Frankly, it's tiring to keep track of you do-gooder types-"

"Shut up Rice. You know what I want," Wesley hissed.

"Do I?" he took a big gulp of the drink and settled it down. He got up and walked towards the ex-Watcher who flinched when he came too close.

"Granted I have significant powers in mind reading, and my mind reading talents tell me this. I sense much darkness in you, Wesley," Gavin said gravely, his brow heavy with a frown. Then he smiled brightly. "That was my Yoda impression. Good eh?"

"I'm not here to banter with you, Rice. I want…" Wesley swallowed and turned away abruptly.

"That's a good boy, Wesley. Turn away while you still can."

Wesley quickly turned back. "I'm not going to."

"Why not? Because what you're proposing is quite insane, by the way. I may be a beigish sort of warlock, but this will destroy you for certain."

"Since when were you concerned about my welfare?"

"You're right. Why am I concerned? Oh wait, how about I don't want you to come back and bite me in my arse when this is all over?"

"I won't."

"Hah!" Gavin clapped his hands and laughed out loud. "So says the man who proposes to dabble in magics he has no understanding of." His tone became serious. "I was not lying when I said that you have a lot of darkness in you. I've not seen such anger, hatred and bitterness in a man for a long while – maybe in Hitler, and see how *he* turned out? I can see it in my mind now," he closed his eyes. "-a big, swirling…fire. Green fire at that. Never a good sign, green fire. The most uncontrollable of the lot, you know."

"Are you going to open me or not Gavin?" Wesley snapped, impatient.

Gavin's eyes flew open and the warlock stared at him, speechless for a moment at Wesley's tone.

"Well," he finally said after a while. "Let it be stated in the contract that I *did* warn you. It's not going to be a pleasant experience, by the way."

"I know," Wesley said softly. His hands turned cold at the thought of what he would endure.

Gavin broke into a strange smile and shook his head, his long, blonde hair tossing around him eerily. Magic crackled around him as he did so – this man was soaked in magic, Wesley thought.

"Not as much as you think, Wesley. This-" he snapped his fingers and a flash of light erupted; "-is just static. Now, before I 'open' you up, there is a matter of monies…"

"I have it."

"Angel investigations paying you *that* well, Wesley?"

Wesley removed something from his long coat, and Gavin was honestly taken aback by what he produced. He touched the long blade reverently. "The blade of Karnak. How?"

"Questions later." Wesley placed the knife back into the confines of his long coat. Gavin watched the knife longingly, then gave a small laugh.

"Dear boy…you have changed, haven't you? When I first saw you, you were a reed of a Watcher, you and that Rupert fellow. You were trembling in your boots when both of you came to me for some 'information'," Gavin mused, tilting his head aside. "I wonder what has brought you to such desperation? If it is that undead creature and those pathetic mortals you 'hang' with, I have some news for you. They are not worth this trouble. If it is revenge you want, I can cook you up a decent cocktail of unpleasant illnesses or even call my good friend D'Honffryn for a few of his vengeance gals. *This* is really madness, Wesley," his voice turned strangely gentle. He placed a hand on Wesley's shoulder. "Turn back now."

Wesley stared at the hand on his shoulder and smiled humorlessly. "Do you want the blade of Karnak or not?"

Gavin removed his hand as if he just touched acid. "Right then. When shall we begin?"


End file.
